I have quit my job every month for the last six months. It's becoming a habit and quit a hard one to break. Each month I look forward to creating new and interesting ways to inform them I am leaving. This month, I may just send a postcard from Mexico saying I've sold all my worldly belongings and am now selling nuclear holocaust proof baked goods on the beach.
A few weeks ago I sent out my resume to 35 of the most well connected people I could think of and begged them to forward it on. I got a great email back from a friend I knew before I quit the Junior League. I trust Molly. She was forwarding it on to a recruiter. A few days later this delightful woman calls me, just as Molly says she would. As this lady recruits mainly for sales, she wanted to get me to someone who might better be able to help me.
I get a call from Jeff, another recruiter. I am excited as hell thinking, "Wow. I'm talking to one of those people that makes things happen!" I am poised and confident and answer all questions without sounding like an 8th grade cheerleader on crack. He asks me my salary requirements and I tell him. He sets an appointment to meet with me the next week. I am beyond thrilled and certain this will land me into a very nice job with a prominent company willing to give me at least a 10% raise. I'm picturing buying a round of cocktails for all my friends to celebrate. Really, could life be any better?
About a week later I get about as dressed up as I can, including the ass kicking Marc Jacobs peep toe four inch heels. I am so ready. I drive my happy ass out to Tempe to meet Jeff, my new best friend. He asked me to come early to our 2 o'clock as there is some questionaire I need to do online. No problem. My old company did that to make sure people were a match for their job. I've been done that road. I rock standardized tests.
I was so glad I left very early as I could not find the place. This part of Tempe is outside my bubble. Generally, anything south of the 60 and east of the 10 is like no man's land. It's not a bad part of town, I've just been ignoring it for the last 28 years and I'm okay with that. Adding to my confusion is that I cannot seem to find a corporate building anywhere. I finally find the right turn in. I am in a fucking strip mall.
This cannot be right. And, why are there no other cars in the parking lot and Holy Christ on a cracker, there is a tire store next door. I am walking to meet a recruiter and all I can smell is Goodyear. I meet Sandy, who will lead me through the questionaire. This office is about the size of a strip mall unit, I wonder why, and has not been decorated since the first Bush Administration and I don't mean W. The reception area in the same size as my walk in closet. Sandy takes up a good part of it. I notice that all the award on the wall are from 1990 something. I am beginning to wonder what they have been doing in this millienium.
To my left are two computers in the same type cubby that I worked at as a contributor for my college paper. Small and brown with a hutch. This is not boding well. She shows me how to get set up. Before I start the "session" she asks if I'd like water. Thanks you for noticing it's 105 degrees. She comes back and hands me not a bottle of water but a small plastic Sparklets cup half filled with water. Oh thanks. That will be oh-so-refreshing. By now I have come to a horrific realization. I am filling out a job application. Jeff is no more a recruiter that I'm Lady shagging Godiva.
After finishing, I sit in a chair literally wedged into a spot between one of the computers and Sandy's desk. It is so close to Sandy, I can almost guess what she had for lunch. I am enjoying a second round of the three tablespoons of water they give you. Shortly, a lady in very ill fitting clothes comes out to explain to me Jeff is in the middle of something and she'll be helping me. Great. It's like getting the backup QB for the Jets in your Fantasy Football draft as a first pick. Terri is one of those women whose front mystifies me. She is built so that her breasts and her stomach come out to the same point in front of her and I can't tell where one starts and the other ends. It's just a large mass. Perhaps she tucks her breasts into her waistline? Her skirt is too tight at the waist so it is clearly digging into her breasts/stomach combo. She walks past me and leads me into a room where we'll be talking.
This room looks like a room that a very unhappy employee left in a great hurry. It is drab of and nearly devoid of anything officelike save a wood veneer desk and two old chairs. She is reviewing my resume with an odd look on her face and asks me, "What are you doing now?"
"I'm doing what it says there marked under Present," I tell her and smile as sweetly as I can trying not to release the snark rising up in me.
She nods, "I see. So there's no urgency?" Thank God, no.
We talk a little more and she asks what I make. I tell her. She then reels back in her chair. She takes a good long look at me. "How are you making that much money?"
What the hell? I couldn't tell if she was astonished that I might be capable of pulling in that kind of money or if she was asking me in order to get tips so she may do the same. Part of me really wanted to look her straight in the face and say, "Blowjobs."
It turns out, Terri, informs me, that they don't recruit at my level. Yeah, really? I hadn't noticed. I have now just wasted an hour and a half of my life and I still have to walk out through wafting Eau de Michelin and get into a 150 degree car.
I got in the door at work and it was like Dorothy coming back to Kansas. I hugged the receptionist. It smelled pretty in the office. There were windows. I feel slightly more thankful now. But I am still quitting and leaving their sorry asses first chance I get!
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